Page 6 of Artifice
As she soaked in the details of the building, she found herself sucked into another era. The entrance hall stretched before her, cavernous and dimly lit. Towering windows of stained glass—cracked in places but still magnificent—lined the eastern wall, casting prisms of blue and green across the wooden floor like underwater shadows.
Dominating the space was a dark mahogany grand staircase that curved upward in a graceful sweep before splitting into two wings at the second floor. The banisters were intricately carved with maritime motifs—waves, shells, and mermaids guiding theway upward. Several of the original balusters were missing, replaced with mismatched substitutes that spoke of pragmatic repairs rather than preservation.
The ceiling soared twenty feet above, adorned with a mural of what must have once been a vibrant seascape, now faded and water-stained in several places. From its center hung a massive crystal chandelier, its hundreds of pendants tinkling softly in the draft circulating through the old house. Only half of its bulbs were functioning, creating a pattern of light and shadow that made the space feel both grand and neglected.
To the right stood a reception desk that looked out of place—a modern intrusion of laminate and metal amid the Victorian splendor. A tired-looking woman with steel-gray hair glanced up from her computer, her expression revealing neither welcome nor disdain. The wall behind her displayed framed photographs of solemn-faced adolescents arranged in graduating classes, their eyes reflecting varying degrees of defiance and resignation.
Olive finally settled on, “What a beautiful building. I’d love to see it all.”
“We take a lot of pride in our facilities,” Margaret said. “This house was originally owned by the King family. After the matriarch passed away fifty years ago, this building served as a mental hospital for decades. When that was shut down, we were able to purchase the property and turn it into Lighthouse Harbor.”
Great. Even the house had a creepy backstory. Mental institution?
“I’m sure oceanfront property is at a premium in this area,” Olive said. “Certainly if you ever needed money, you could sell this place, make a pretty penny, then buy something farther inland for half the price but with twice the land.”
She narrowed her gaze. “We feel as if the ocean is a point of therapy for the students here. So, while I know it may seem like an extravagant location, we believe it’s important.”
“Makes sense. I’d love a tour.”
“Then let’s go.” Margaret led her across the foyer, through some double doors, and into a dark hallway.
She rattled off facts about the home as they walked.
Lighthouse Harbor occupied what locals still called “the King Estate,” a sprawling Victorian mansion built in 1873 by shipping magnate Jeremiah King. The mansion featured three distinct wings radiating from a central core, giving it a roughly T-shaped footprint that covered nearly twenty thousand square feet.
The central building housed the administrative offices. The enormous entrance hall with its grand staircase and what had once been formal parlors had been converted to classrooms and therapy rooms.
The east wing contained the girls’ dormitory, with twenty-five single rooms arranged along a wide corridor, each with original woodwork and tall windows that rattle in coastal winds.
The west wing mirrored the same layout for the male students, though many rooms still featured the reinforced doors and observation windows from its days as a mental institution.
The mansion could accommodate fifty students total, though current enrollment hovered at thirty-seven.
The dining hall occupied what had once been the hospital’s community room, its high ceilings and massive windows offering spectacular but isolated views of the churning Atlantic far below the cliff’s edge.
But Olive barely listened as Margaret droned on. She already knew most of this information since she’d done her research before coming. But seeing the place for herself gave her a different perspective.
The students upon arriving here probably felt terrified.
One of the rooms on the administrative hallway caught Olive’s eye as she and Margaret stood nearby, Margaret still spouting facts. Olive tried to look interested.
But the door to this room was cracked open, and a single eye stared out at her, blackness stretching beyond the figure.
Strange.
And creepy.
But whoever was behind that door now had Olive’s attention.
“Director Ingraham?” A woman stuck her head out from an office behind them and called for Margaret.
“Excuse me a moment please,” Margaret murmured before walking toward the woman.
Leaving Olive alone.
Maybe this was her chance to find out some answers.
She hadn’t expected to jump in so early, but she couldn’t miss this opportunity either.
